The Mute
by WanderingOnBakerStreet
Summary: After John has moved out of Baker Street to live with Mary, he thinks Sherlock is in need of a new flatmate. After interviewing potential candidates he find one unique individual who may prove to be the mystery he needs.
1. Chapter 1

The Mute

Sherlock gazed out the window staring out and down to the street below. The flat was deafeningly quiet. Not unusual, John had moved out to be with Mary months ago. No more crap telly, or the sound of slow tapping of keys that came with John's completely inconvenient two fingered typing style, or griping about body parts left around the kitchen...well apart from the occasional visit from Mrs. Hudson who always had something to say about it. She seemed to be coming around more often now. He'd noticed this when she'd entered the flat last week with some baked goods, which Sherlock later used for an experiment involving some preserved stomach bile he'd nicked from St. Bart's. When the acidic liquid had hit the ground with a splat that night, he'd almost instinctively thought he heard John in the next room calling out, "What did you do?" He'd glanced at the green tinted liquid on the wooden floor and surprising himself, cleaned it up, something he normally wouldn't have done without an argument. But, even without his old flatmate there, he'd still kept up John's habits, taking them on as his own. The flat wasn't any messier than it had been when there'd been two people living there, in fact it was probably cleaner now without John's possessions. He at least got out of bed before two in the afternoon like John had always bothered him to do. He remembered to eat...most of the time However despite these facts he still received annoying reminders daily,

_Eat something this morning would you?-JW_

A small smirk crept up the side of his mouth as he remembered that morning's text,

_No cases from Lestrade. Get out of bed anyways you lazy twat!-JW._

He didn't answer, knowing that'd have John miffed. He was always assuming that Sherlock had to have the last word. But, that'd been his only form of entertainment this morning, and without the promise of a new case there wasn't really any hope of more. Or hope of seeing John. He closed his eyes heavily, as if the weight of his boredom made it hard for them to stay open. He briefly considered his revolver on the desk and then forgot about it. What was the point?

John checked his phone. No texts from Sherlock. He better be out of bed, he thought. He immediately pictured Sherlock, probably on the floor next to his bed, on his back, fingertips poised under his chin, technically "out of" bed but not being productive. Mary came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist kissing his cheek and resting her head on his shoulder.

"What does he do all alone in that flat all day?" She mumbled in his ear, voice muffled in the fabric of his jumper. John turned and kissed her.

"Been wondering that for years."

Mary grinned jokingly, "I almost feel bad dragging you away from there. He's like a dog, he needs looking after."

John smiled and looked out his own window. "I told him to get a new flatmate but I doubt he's even tried."

Mary laughed. "Can you imagine him interviewing for flatmates?"

While she was laughing John stopped to look at his wife with the most love and appreciation he could muster. So many girls before her had completely despised his relationship with Sherlock and were out the door faster than the consulting detective could recall their names. But Mary, God, he couldn't thank her enough for immediately accepting him, everything about him. Including his dysfunctional, inappropriate, insane friendship with a sociopath. He could tell that Sherlock secretly liked her as well even if he hid it; her fire, her curiosity, and her biting sense of humor. He remembered the many months ago when she'd finally convinced him to introduce them.

"You talk about him so much, so he must be important to you," she'd said.

"He'll tear you apart," he'd warned.

"I think I can make him like me." she'd replied with another one of her mischievous smiles.

When Sherlock first analyzed her John had braced himself for the offended scoff or a flustered storm-off. But, after Sherlock had finished his monologue on her life story, she stood in silence almost like she was making deductions of her own. She'd then raised an eyebrow and said with a playful smirk, "Very impressive Mr. Holmes. John was right, you truly are amazing." John had seen his lips twitch, and with that small flicker of amusement on that cold face, and he immediately relaxed. Yes, this could possibly work.

John quickly checked his phone again, and stood. "You think I should check on him?"

Mary gave him another kiss. "You just give him what you think he needs, and if he's fine, then at least you get to see your best friend." She turned to head into the kitchen and looked back.

"Make sure you don't get into any trouble..."

* * *

John's eyes flicked over to Sherlock as they walked quickly down the busy streets of London. He tried to study him as best he could without him knowing. He looked the same, and surprisingly, so had the flat except for the absence of John's possessions. If Sherlock was feeling any loneliness at all, he was good at hiding it.

"So, the place hasn't gone to ruin in my absence," he'd said when he'd first entered the doorway.

Sherlock, who'd been standing at the window in his dressing gown and pajamas (typical) didn't even turn. "Nothing special John, just another tactic to ward off boredom."

John stepped in further. "Anything new on the website?"

"Study on stomach bile deterioration after death."

He smiled and sat in his old favorite armchair. "Experiments, with no messes? I'm impressed."  
Sherlock still wouldn't turn to look at him. "There was one, but it's gone now."

John turned to look in the kitchen. He saw an odd discoloration on the floor near the counter, but other than that there was no other sign of a disaster.

"I told Mrs. Hudson to remind you to find a new flatmate," he said. "You can't pay for it by yourself, remember? That's the whole reason we met in the first place."

Sherlock didn't say anything. _Why get a new flatmate?_ John was a lucky fluke, how likely was it to find someone else who was willing to put up with his insanity?

"Sherlock." He finally looked at John. he had that stern look on his face, the one he used when he thinks Sherlock's acting childish. "I'm being serious now. You need to find a new flatmate, not just for financial reasons."

"And what other reasons are you thinking of?" Sherlock replied cooly.

A smile. "Someone needs to keep you in check when I'm not around."

The detective remained stone faced. "I'm fine on my own. I'm obviously healthy and the flat is still in one piece."

"That's true, and that's wonderful," John said, "but you still need to find one. You're not one to be alone for too long without incident. Mycroft even suggested an alternative."

Sherlock turned again. "What, my big brother watching me through security cameras?" He scoffed. "He already does that anyway and it doesn't make any difference."

"Well then, your choice is easy. You're getting a new flatmate." John announced as he made his way to the door.

"Oh really John," he sneered, "who'd actually become flatmates with me? How likely is it to actually find someone willing to put up with me twice?"

Now in the cafe they were sitting in John studied him again. He's right, most people would hate him the minute they met him and he'd probably think the majority of them were boring just by reading their replies.

"What would a person like you even want in a flat mate?" He asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't restart old conversations John, it's incredibly dull and in turn makes you less interesting."  
Ignoring the insult he continued, "What about someone quiet? Or someone clever? Or hell, even someone stupid? Just so you could have someone to kick around."

He saw a flash of a smile. Progress?

"They shouldn't be boring," he said.

"Okay then, we can start there."

Sherlock suddenly stood and put on his scarf and long coat and smiled. The special smile he used to manipulate people at crime scenes.  
"Find one by next week, that's when rent's due. But you knew that."

And with a flourish he walked out, leaving John dumbfounded on one side of the booth.

Did he just...?


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Hi everyone, here's chapter two. Just in case people got confused in the last chapter I have some symbols I use.

... = a change in perspective

_ a change in setting or a large amount of time passed.

Okay that's all from me. Enjoy!

"He's making us do his work for him!" John announced as he entered the flat.

"What does that mean exactly?" Mary called from the sitting room.

John threw his coat on the sofa and walked around to face Mary.

"He's making us find a flat mate for him."

Mary stared for a second, then a smile broke across her face, then she began to giggle.

"What? Why are you laughing this isn't funny!"

Mary kept laughing "It could be!"

John rubbed his face in frustration, sometimes he felt like the two of them ganged up on him when he wasn't looking. They both seemed to find amusement in his confusion.

Mary's laughing subsided "Think about it, it's like a challenge. How do you find a flat mate for a sociopath?" She laughed again, John sat across from her with a sigh, she immediately jumped in, "He doesn't want someone boring I assume, but if we give him someone like you then he'd think we took the easy way out and that's no fun for either of us."

John was fascinated by how closely she was actually looking at this.

She was thinking out loud now. "Okay let's see, what does he like in person? Did he ever date anyone? Besides you?" she joked.  
"Very funny, and as far as I know, no. Sherlock Holmes has never been attached."  
Mary thought long and hard, John was still bewildered at the work she was willing to put into this, and still he couldn't be more grateful. He stood and went to make some tea.

"Give him someone he needs to figure out. He said he liked me because I was interesting. Someone to kill his boredom."

Mary was still thinking, not saying a word until suddenly she took out a pad and paper and began to write.

* * *

Interviewing was taking hours. They'd posted the advertisement two days ago and received 20 applicants almost the next morning. Lot's of freaks looking for flats. John had thought after reading some of the replies. Then the interviews started the next day, it felt hopeless, like trying on shoes in a shop where they only sold two sizes. Size boring, or size dangerous, because those were the piles John sorted the applicants into afterwards.

The first two people that came in were clearly students who were extreme partiers. Late nights, loud music, binge drinking? No good for Sherlock. John crossed them off instantly, into the dangerous pile. Another rejection was a middle aged woman whom Sherlock would've classified as dull, and weepy, probably newly divorced and no children. He'd figure her out right away. Also why would she want a flat share with a strange man? Dull and dangerous? No wish to find out.

The next was an innocent looking young man who was clearly just out of uni and was trying to get on his feet as an actor. John crossed him off immediately for the kid's sake more than Sherlock's. Sherlock crushing far fetched hopes and dreams...no. Mary however, did most of the talking, she was incredibly sly. She seemed to look at the potential applicant and then match the personality that they'd respond to best. Similar to the way Sherlock could turn on the charm or the tears at a crime scene. She was able to get a lot the information that could have been over looked. About boyfriends, girlfriends, drug habits (big no no), pets and odd behavior. John didn't want two crazies in one house.

John heard the next person enter while he was looking over the last applicant's photographs of birds they'd left with them to "look into his true spirit." It had been five hours and he was thoroughly exhausted. How many weirdos were there in this bloody city? He didn't bother looking up.

"State your name."

Silence. He looked up confused, maybe he'd mistaken the sound of the door opening, he was tired after all but, no sure enough there was a young woman sitting in front of him with an uneasy expression on her face. He repeated himself.

"Name please."

The girl pushed her lips together and leaned forward to point at her application. Her name was at the top in semi-neat scrawl handwriting.  
John looked over to Mary who was studying their new applicant intensely. After a minute a kind smile spread across her face. She'd found her approach.

"It's alright if you don't want to talk. I get nervous too sometimes. If you'd like I could write the questions down and you could fill them out over there." she said pointing to the armchair next to the fireplace. The girl smiled shyly and Mary walked with her over to the fireplace to write down the questions. When the girl was absorbed in writing she turned and smiled at John and mouthed.

"This could be it."  
...

This was thoroughly ridiculous.

_Found you one. I'm coming over.-JW_

Well this wasn't going to take long. He'd given John until next week and he'd managed to find him a flatmate in two days. Sherlock considered what was most likely to come. John would present his idea of a perfect flat mate, Sherlock would immediately deduce everything about them and declare them unfit and John would be sent back into the fray. What an utter waste of time. What could John possibly consider a perfect flat mate for him? Most likely a carbon copy of John himself. No, he contradicted himself Mary would've advised against it. He'd never let it be known but Mary was more clever than she looked. She probably conducted half the operation. he thought smirking at the thought of John taking orders from her, all while trying to remain as in charge as he thought himself to be.

Just as he'd gone back into serious thinking mode he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. John, he thought then listened again, John and... someone else? Mary? No the other footsteps were lighter, trainers, not the heavy clomping of Mary's faux leather boots she seemed to favor so much. Dear god, he did not bring it with him. Did John really think that by bringing the person with him that it would change his mind? Moron. He's seen him pick apart numerous people to their face all the time, what made this time any different? All of the sudden the situation seemed to peak his interest. He wouldn't let John know that of course. But the fact that John had brought the person with him, after knowing him for all this time and thinking it would make a difference, what could this person have that is supposed to interest him?

He heard John outside the door speaking quietly to someone, Sherlock couldn't make out the words but it sounded like John was trying to warn whoever was with him. Preparing them for the madness. He thought, letting it echo with sarcasm inside his incredibly vast mind. John entered but no one followed behind him. They must be waiting outside the door while John tries to tame the beast.

"So..." he began.

"You've supposedly found one." Sherlock interrupted with an almost cruel grin.

"Yes, I think you'll be interested in them." John said trying to remain stoic.

"And why is that?" The detective replied turning to face the window, dressing gown swirling with him rather dramatically.

"They're... different."

"Everyone's believes they're different John, but in actuality we're all the same, same thoughts, same lives, same speech..."

"Well maybe not speech-"

Sherlock waved it off, "Well languages, but that's not the point-"

"Sherlock!" John said sternly. Suddenly Sherlock felt a third presence in the room.

He turned, to see a young woman, in jeans and trainers. Obviously. She didn't say anything she just stared at him with round hazel eyes, a brown several shades lighter than her hair, almost as if they'd been mismatched. He noticed her rubbing the fingers on her right hand together. Nervous habit. He looked back at her face, lips were red and raw from biting and scraping at them. Anxiety issues. She was pretty, well what Sherlock guessed was pretty. Boyfriend? Hell, what was this woman's name?

"Who are you?" he asked still studying her.

"Sherlock-"

"John don't answering for her, I prefer to make my own observations."

"Sherlock she doesn't speak."

The girl's eyes dropped to the floor immediately. A mute? Well, this should be easy.

"Early onset anxiety disorder due to a trauma as a child, leading to selective mutism. John, it's not terribly hard to figure out." Sherlock said quickly turning back to the window. He heard John murmur something like "I'm so sorry." to the nameless woman. Then he heard the rustle of paper and felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to be face to face, well face to neck with this woman, she was a full head shorter than him. She stepped back and tucked her hair behind her ear and with her left hand held out a small piece of notebook paper that read.

_I'm Samantha, call me Sam. Nice to meet you._

When he looked up her right hand was held out for a handshake. Sherlock obliged cautiously, not without noticing John trying to hide a triumphant smirk.

_What have you done Sam?_ She thought as she walked from the cab to her sister's flat. Heart pounding, and face flushed._ You should've found out who you were rooming with first before agreeing to this._ She'd had no idea her potential new flatmate was going to be male. And a strange one at that. She had to admit though. The flat was cool, there was a lot of weird stuff around and she'd always liked odd place like that. _He didn't like me, I know it._ She thought as she entered the flat and jogged upstairs to her room. He seemed mean even to Dr. Watson, and they were close friends? She took of her coat and scarf and sat on the bed. And why was he in his pajamas? It was after noon. He was extremely odd indeed. She looked around her small room, trying to picture her possession especially her multitudes of books among the madness in that flat. She'd done the same thing when moving to Uni, and it seemed so impossible until she'd arrived and her roommate, Kate had been so kind. The two of them stayed up at night discussing books and authors and philosophy until the wee hours of the morning, her anxiety dissolved. Maybe this would be like that. Maybe Sherlock Holmes, god what a strange name, isn't as brusque as he seemed. Or maybe they'd just coexist and not interact at all. Shouldn't be too hard since any possible conversation would be one-sided anyway. A deep sigh. This is a bad idea. An extremely bad idea.

"Sam, you home?" her sister called from downstairs.

Sam tapped her foot on the floor, their new signal for saying "yes" when far away. The two sisters had a lot of signals like that. Her sister, Sarah, had created the symbols when they'd both found sign language rather difficult, and Sam wasn't deaf. She just couldn't speak and she could hear just fine so why not let her sister speak normally when she's around? So in substitute they created little signals and sounds to communicate, along with the regular yes or no head nod. And Sarah could usually tell what Sam was thinking anyway, that's how it was with sisters. Close ones at least.

After Samantha had been released from Hospital Sarah had offered for her to stay with her and her fiance, Mark, until she got back on her feet. And to help her... adjust to this new lifestyle. Secretly, she felt like a bit of a burden to the two of them, they'd helped move her small amount of possessions (they only filled about three boxes, two of which were full of books) and her desk and bookcase to their reasonably sized flat in London for "As long as you need." Sarah had said, but Sam now felt she had overstayed her welcome. Not talking made you notice more. She could tell that the two of them tiptoed around her, and that they didn't like leaving her alone for long periods of time. Also she basically got rid of the guest room because it was now her room. So a few days ago she found the advertisement in the paper and thought the price looked reasonable and had Sarah contact the number for an interview. Phone conversations were out of the question now. Her mother had offered for her to live at home but, Sam decided that would be a huge step backwards. _Time to be a grown up_, she'd thought when she walked in for the interview. Except now that required action, and she felt miles away from ready.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Hello everyone! Thank you for the reviews I love reading them. Especially since this is my first story. Here's the next chapter. Sorry I took so long I was doing things today and didn't get home until late. Enjoy!

Sherlock paced around the small sitting room. The place was a mess. Late night casework. She was going to be here any minute and any normal person would've tidied up. John had texted him that morning to remind him of today's event.

_Remember she's coming today. Be nice. -JW_

He scoffed, he was fine, as long as she didn't irritate him.

"Oh hello dear, you must be Samantha," a pause "Oh, Sam alright dear, he's just upstairs, I'm sorry I wasn't here when you first came, my hip..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, Mrs. Hudson and her formalities. Her unnecessary personal, formalities.

He heard footsteps, She's wearing the trainers again, he noticed. He faced the window, and heard the door open.

"Sherlock, your new flat mate's here."

Looks like Mrs. Hudson's going to take care of the talking. He turned to face her and the young woman who stood beside her dwarfed by the box she was carrying.

"Very good your room is that way." He said quickly nodding in the direction of John's old bedroom. She left the room and Mrs. Hudson immediately started.

"Gosh she's a pretty one isn't she? Where'd you find her dear? I'd never guessed you'd-"

Sherlock cut her off, "I didn't, John did. I just agreed."

She didn't stop, "And what about the no talking? The poor dear, she must have been through something. She's rather small too isn't she I wonder..."

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm sure she would appreciate you not speculating about her when she's not even a room away, and I suggest you leave now before you make things worse." He snapped coldly.

"Alright dearie," she said cautiously "I'll let you two get to know each other." she began her walk down the stairs and called back "She's got two more boxes to go mind you!"

Sherlock stared out the window another minute before surprising himself for second time in the past few weeks, and heading down the stairs and out the door to the cab to retrieve the two other boxes.

When he was climbing the stairs with the second box he examined the it and tried to deduce what was inside. Maybe giving insight into his silent flat mate. Solid feeling, but there were multiple things in the box._ Books most likely, either she's extremely well-read or wants to be_ viewed _as extremely well-read._ He then remembered that the box before had felt the same as well. _No, she's most likely read them. No one trying fake being well read would pack up two box fulls of books just to prove a point. You could do that just as easily by putting a Hemingway paperback in your back pocket when in actuality you don't even know why that supposedly makes you intelligent in the first place._  
He dropped the box with a grunt at the top of the stairs to catch his breath and noticed a figure out of the corner of his eye. She was standing there, just inside the flat, watching him. She gave a sweet smile. Probably the only _"Thank You" she can get across._ And he gave a nod in return. Then picked up the box and headed into her room.

When he emerged. she had moved to the window looking out at the view of Baker Street and the people down below. Sherlock remained still, hoping to examine her without her noticing. Her gaze moved from the window to his violin on the cluttered desk next to it, she seemed to study it closely but not once reached out to touch one string.

_Clear respect for personal space, and belongings._

He held his breath when she moved from the window to the fireplace where she studied Billy, his skull, resting in his usual place on the mantle. A smile of amusement from her, when she saw the pile of bills stabbed with a knife in the wood. He kept watching as she glanced at the yellow spray painted smiley face on the wall and the worn out sofa below it. She gave a curious look at the bullet holes in the wall but other than that did not react at all.

_She doesn't find that strange? Or questionable?_

When she knelt down to study the stacks of books next to the armchair by the fire she noticed him. He heard a small gasp escape her lips.  
He pretended to ignore it and walk past her as she stood,

"I should probably tell the worst things about me. Flat mates should always know the worst of one another."

He turned back to meet her eyes, they were hesitant, listening.

"I like to play the violin at any and all times of the night, I keep body parts in the fridge, sometimes I don't talk for days on end, does that bother you?"

She made a face at "don't talk for days on end..." _Obviously she's not bothered._

"Alright but anything else?"

She suddenly turned on her heel and left the room to return with notebook paper and a pen. She scribbled furiously for a moment then handed him the book.

_Violin: Don't mind as long as you're not horrendous!_  
_Body Parts in the Fridge: As a long as it's legal, and where else would you put them?_  
_Talking for days on end: Look at who you're talking to. (No pun intended.)_

He stared a minute then looked back up.

"Right, then. I'll leave you alone to get settled. I have work to do anyway."  
She gave a quick smile and went back into her room.

A few hours later he heard her emerge, he heard a yawn. She entered the kitchen where he'd been pouring over a case file for hours. Grim pictures and court transcripts littered the table. She came around behind him, looking over his shoulder.

"I can clear some of this if you want."

She jumped a little, he'd startled her.

"Sorry." he said blandly.

She shook her head and crossed over to the fridge and opened it. Sherlock held his breath in anticipation for the impending reaction. She'd said, well wrote, that she'd be fine with the pieces of anatomy kept in the kitchen, but it's hard to suppress a true reaction. He waited. He listened. Nothing. He looked up and saw her staring into the fridge, her nose was squinched not in disgust but in confusion. She turned and gave a blank look. Sherlock then realized why.

"There's no food is there?"

A few hours earlier.  
Samantha sprawled herself out on the newly made bed. It was larger than the one at her sister's, which was just a bit larger than a twin. But this was nice. So much space!

The room was also bigger than the one at her sister's, one window with a small writer's desk beneath it, two completely empty bookshelves which for Sam was extremely promising, and blank walls. All she'd done so far was unpack her bed sheets and pillows. She'd planned to start on the bookshelves next but the bed had looked so inviting. She napped a few hours and woke to darkness outside her window. Groggily she looked around the room trying to decide what to do next. Suddenly her stomach made a sickening noise._ Food would be good about now._ She checked her mobile, just after seven. She opened her door and poked her head out. Silence. Had he left? The description in the advertisement had said that he was... what was it called? Nothing Sam had ever heard of. A detective of some kind, but he didn't look like a policeman. _Probably freelance,_ she thought_, like me._ _Although I don't think I've heard of a freelance detective_. As she thought this she rounded the corner to find him sitting at the table in the kitchen. Photographs and papers strewn everywhere. She moved quietly behind him trying to get a better look at a particularly grim set of photos on his left.

"I can clear some of this if you want." he said.

Sam jumped, living in silence a lot of the time made noise seem so surprising.

"Sorry."

God, she really had to get that under control, she didn't want to be afraid of this guy, or make him feel like her sister. Always careful not to startle her fragile sister.

She wanted to show him something in her face that meant "It's okay." but couldn't think of anything. He wasn't looking anyway. Why was she here again? Food, right. She crossed behind him to the fridge and opened it. She was immediately hit with some kind of odor that reminded her of dissection day in school. Inside were plastic bags with what looked like... thumbs? In the dimly lit fridge everything looked shadowy, but Sam was pretty sure she saw a human nose. She looked deeper, more bags. She kneeled down to the produce drawers, empty. She'd have to go to the shop. She turned back to the skinny man sitting behind her, not sure what her purpose was or how to communicate her dilemma, or if she even should. He was watching her.

"There's no food is there?"

* * *

They'd ordered take away. Chinese, from a place a block over. He had to do the order, not being able to use a phone and all.  
Sam sat on the couch with a container of chow mien and a fork, bent over the coffee table. He'd set himself up in the armchair near the window staring at the blaring telly in front of them. He'd already changed into his pajamas and dressing gown and had his knees drawn up to his chest, like a large child. He'd eaten very little focusing on the show in front of him, a trivia programme, distracting him, until he gave up on the food completely.

"No! You idiot the summer solstice is in June! You'd know if you'd ever left your basement!"

Sam raised an eyebrow and smiled, she'd seen guys get excited over football tournaments this way but never some trivia programme. She would try to answer some of the questions on her own sometimes, there was usually one category she knew pretty well. This man seemed to have knowledge on many things though. When she'd examined his books earlier she'd noticed some strange volumes in the stacks on the floor. "How to Kill a Man with Household Appliances", "Bullet and Firearm History of the Edwardian Time Period", "5,000 Molds That Can Kill", among others. Sam wasn't exactly sure when any of that information would come in handy,_ But maybe that's why he studies it,_ she thought scooping more chow mien into her mouth, _you never know when you'll need it._ She stole a look at his face illuminated in the blue light of the television. He was rather angular looking, everything was pointy and jagged, and everything contradicted itself. Jet black hair, pale skin, skinny body, but a deep voice, and his blue eyes contrasted everything else, serving as the only bit of color on his face. She wondered how she looked to him. He seemed to basically deconstruct everyone in a way when he met them, look inside, then put them back together again.

What had he said about her?

_Early onset anxiety disorder. Selective mutism_.

Well, he was right about that much. But not everything.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Hello everyone! Thank you for all the new reviews! I'm really excited about where this story's headed. Here's Chapter 4!

John sipped his tea half listening to the tournament on the television at Speedy's Diner. He checked his watch, two minutes of three. He looked up to the bell ringing as Sam entered the place, scanning the room. John gave a little wave and she walked over and sat down across from him in the booth.

"Hello then," John said with a sigh, "You want anything? Tea?"

She nodded and made a signal with her hands meaning "Two sugars."

John ordered for her and then they got down to business.

"Okay so... how are things going I guess?" he started.

Sam pulled out a notepad, and showed him the note she'd written to Sherlock. He raised his eyebrows at "Where else would you put them?" She really doesn't mind body parts in the fridge? She then turned to a clean page and scribbled furiously.

_Okay, quick overview and questions._

_One, he doesn't talk much except when he has to. Two, does he ever eat? I got him to eat last night but he didn't really have much. Three, he likes crappy trivia programmes, well correcting them. Which I don't mind by the way. And four, what exactly does he do?_  
_John read the note quickly, and smiled at the bit about Sherlock still liking crap telly._

"To answer your question about the eating, he doesn't eat much, he...forgets to I guess."

Sam gave a look.

"I don't get it either just keep giving him food and he'll be fine. That's what I used to do."

Sam scribbled in her notebook but gave him no sign she was trying to communicate so he continued.

"And about what he does. He's a consulting detective."

Sam looked up, trying to understand.

"He invented the job the police consult him on strange cases. Murders are his favorite. And I'll tell you now," he leaned in a little "when he's on a case will be the quietest time of your life because he's usually never home, what you really should worry about is when he doesn't have a case, by the way does he right now?"

Sam shrugged, I don't know. Then wrote,

_He had a case file out last night in the kitchen I think. But he was home all day as far a I know._

"He doesn't then. Just check the papers everyday and this website," he reached over and scrawled a web address in the notebook."The Science of Deduction, it's his website potential clients contact him there when they don't come to the flat."

She raised an eyebrow, Clients?

"Oh right, he doesn't just work with the police, he does private things as well. But only if they're interesting, if they're not he usually insults them and throws them out."

Both eyebrows went up now.

"He usually doesn't insult the flatmate, well mostly, I mean he would say horrible things to me but it was usually when he was frustrated or bored."

A pained look.

"I don't think he'd do that to you though."

John didn't know why but looking at her now, he couldn't picture anyone insulting this girl. And if anyone did they'd have to be completely incapable of remorse.

Sam seemed to have relaxed, she'd scribbled a few more notes in her notebook and had closed it up. By now her tea had arrived and she was sipping it daintily.

"Also, I have to ask, what do you do?"

Confusion.

"What's your job? You are paying for the flat as well."

She jerked her head back as if to say, "Ah I get it!"

She pantomimed typing on a keyboard,

"A blogger?"

She shook her head.

"A writer?"

She gave a hand gesture, Kind of. Then wrote in the notebook and pushed it across the table.

_Freelance writer, I review books. Doesn't require talking because it's done through the internet. Don't worry about lack of work either because I have pretty steady income from multiple websites and magazines._

John nodded, "Good, good."

Sam sat back and finished her tea and raised her eyebrows at him. Is that all?

"I think that's everything, and if you have any other questions I gave you my contact info right?"

She nodded.

"Good," John didn't know what to say next, he felt like he was handing over his pet to a caregiver for the weekend, they'd talked about feeding him for chrissake! "Alright then, text me or email me if you need anything then."

She gave a warm smile, waved goodbye and left the diner.

And in that moment John began to trust her.

Sherlock heard her footsteps. _No trainers today, boots._ Not clomping ones like Mary's, hers were flat and rubber on the bottom. Quiet things. She was quiet. Not just because she didn't talk, but she did everything almost silently. She would walk heel-toe all the time feeling the floor rather than hitting it like Sherlock did when he walked. When she ate she chewed her food slowly, sometimes he noticed her looking at it on her fork for a minute before putting it in her mouth. She also spent a lot of time locked up in her bedroom. While she'd been out, conferencing with John no doubt, he'd peered in briefly. The two bookshelves had been almost filled completely with probably hundreds of books. The writing desk had a laptop and an open book on it with a small writing lamp. Her bed was always made and there was a floor lamp next to it. He knew she read a lot, he'd often see her in the mornings with a small volume in her left hand eating toast with the other, no plate, and nothing resting on the table where his latest experiments were always laying out. It was as if she was trying to take up as little space as possible at all times. She left no signs of ever being in a room except her own. And had taken a huge liking to her, sometimes Sherlock thought, even more than she'd liked John, because she always listened to her tangents on the day's gossip or her latest hip related problem.

However, she somehow made sure Sherlock did everything he was supposed to do. And he never argued. Not once. Something in the silent way she would casually place a plate of food in his lap or toss some clothes at him in the mornings made arguing seem out of place. Silly almost, unlike with John where everything was a battle. There was no competition with her, and it's not like she would argue back. Though she was interesting. He would watch her sometimes out of the corner of his eye. There were really only two time he saw her for an extended period of time. They'd created a little routine without really trying, he'd see her when she'd wake up in the morning, wearing a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, she always woke up after him, she'd make some toast and butter and would him a small plate for himself. He'd watch her from behind his paper, she never knew. They'd both eat and read in silence, then she would leave the table for her shower and afterwards would emerge again to throw some clothes at Sherlock sometimes even looking at him then returning to her bedroom to write Sherlock assumed. He heard an awful lot of typing, quick paced with pauses, not like John which sound like slow tapping. Then he'd go about his day, meeting with Lestrade, experiments at the morgue with Molly, or case work with John. Whenever there wasn't a large case he always went home around the same time everyday for dinner, which lead to the second time he'd see her, take away dinner and telly, because a table conversation would be rather one sided. That's when he'd do his real observations. She was always in her pajamas by that time of night and would always eat on the sofa with Sherlock in the armchair closer to the telly. She always sat either cross legged or one knee drawn up with her food spread out the coffee table. He knew what her laugh looked like even though it didn't make a sound, she would smile in a different way than her usual timid close mouthed fashion. Sometimes she wouldn't even watch, on a number of occasions he'd caught her dreaming, staring out the window. Afterwards she'd clear all the garbage and go to bed, and that would be the last he'd see of her until the next day.  
Sherlock would sometimes let the thought creep into his mind that their routine wasn't... he didn't know how to describe it...right? Whenever he was out with John he'd always ask him about her.

"You and Sam getting along alright?"

"Didn't you learn enough from your conference with her?"

"Okay, I shouldn't be surprised that you know about that, but we didn't talk about that."

"What did you talk about then?"

John thought a moment.

"It was just a check-in. Seeing how she was adjusting."

"She's fine, we don't see much of one another."

"How? It's not a very big flat-"

"John I need for you to understand something," Sherlock turned, "She is there for two purposes, to live there and to help me pay for it. She's not bothersome, she keeps to herself, we see each other twice a day, and she makes sure I don't destroy anything. She does a job. That's all."

He turned and kept walking, after a moment John caught up to him, not dropping the topic.

"Yeah but how can you not even interact? Shouldn't you at least get to know her?"

Sherlock was silent.

"You live with her and you know nothing about her!"

"How much did you know about me when you moved in?"

"I had learned too much by the end of the day."

Sherlock kept walking, they did know a little too much about one another, more on Sherlock's end, but that was because he looked.

"She keeps to herself, I think we're on the same page."

John stopped and he did too.

"Look all I'm saying is it might be nice for you to make an effort." he sighed "I don't think she has any friends or anyone she knows."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Don't Sherlock, think about it, she can't exactly interact with anyone. Not unless someone makes the effort first."

Sherlock stared.

A sigh, "Just... give it a shot."


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Hi everyone! Thank you for your feedback on Chapter 4! Here's the update!

Sam was typing furiously when she heard a gentle knock on her door. She turned, puzzled. She checked the clock on her laptop, it was three in the afternoon Sherlock usually wasn't home around this time. Or if he was he was usually experimenting or not speaking. Another knock, she rose to open the door. But the person on the other end beat her to it.  
Sherlock? She raised her eyebrows, why was he here?

"Um... I need your help with something." he said quietly. He looked uncomfortable, like he'd never asked for help in his life.

She gave a confused look, he nodded in the direction of the kitchen and she followed him. On the table was an elaborate set of beakers and glass tubes with colored liquids in them. Sherlock walked over to the opposite end of the table and grabbed a notebook with a sloppy data chart on it with labels written in equally sloppy handwriting. He stood beside her and held it out for her to see.

"I'm going to mix this chemical," he said pointing to a beaker containing red liquid, "with this one," and pointed to a test tube with a yellow liquid inside. "Then..." he continued rushing over to the opposite end of the table and came back with eight other test tubes with other colors, "I'm going to do the same with these." He came back beside her and pointed back to the chart in her hands. "If the liquid changes color put a check mark, if it does not an x mark, and if it turns black write a circle. Don't worry about which chemical is which I wrote them in order."

She looked up at him a minute. He stared not knowing what to say next, he eventually muttered,

"I figured it would be more efficient having someone else do the writing rather than having to pause every two minutes." He quickly walked back over to the test tubes and looked back up at her.

"Uh... you ready?"

She nodded.

She'd watched and and recorded for about an hour. It was actually rather interesting to wach each chemical had a different reaction to the mixture he inserted with the eyedropper. She wished she could ask questions to find out more about what he was doing it for but didn't want to waste his time trying to figure out how to say "What's this do?" in pantomime.

When she'd first left hospital she hadn't tried to communicate at all. She didn't see the point after everything that had happened. After all talking to anyone new was hard for her, her mind racing always. Being an overly intuitive person can make one rather afraid, especially when most of your assumptions turn to out to be true. In school she tried to make friends, she was funny, well she thought she was funny.

Sometimes she would try to join a conversation but no one seemed to hear her. So she began to try a little harder speaking louder. But that didn't seem to work either, once two girls she knew from class walked past her and she made a comment on whatever they were talking about and they kept walking, suddenly angry she walked around the corner and shouted at them,

"Really?! You're just going to keep walking?"

They didn't hear her. After that she began to keep to herself, only speaking when spoken to. Her teachers always described her as "A pleasure to have in class." because she wouldn't yell and scream or chat during a lesson. But would always say she needed to "participate more." Sam hated that, in group discussions no one really spoke at all or two kids would always seem to gain control of the whole thing and no one could speak anyway. Sometimes the teachers acted like she did it on purpose, when she'd met with her counselor before year eleven they'd had a big discussion on "advocating for herself" apparently Samantha had trouble speaking to authority about schoolwork. She'd tried to remain calm and professional, years of watching had taught her that adults responded well to calm politeness, especially school counselors. She nodded and said she'd try, but then tried to avoid any teacher-student confrontation from then on. When she'd fail an assignment she'd try to not picture the disapproving look on her teacher's face when they'd read this supposedly "bright" student's mess of a maths homework. She unintentionally labeled herself as "bright" and "smart" because she read a lot and had more common sense than kids her age. Which made teachers expect more of her, which made it even harder when she'd forget assignments or not prepare for exams. Silence was best in situations like this. When the teacher confronts you about your missed assignment or a failed quiz, you answer politely, no arguments, you're not like the others, show them you mean it. In truth she was trapped. She had so much to say and had so much she wanted to do. She wanted to stand up and shout all the time.

"Just because I read doesn't automatically make me a genius!"

"This isn't testing my intelligence, this is testing my memory."

"Just because I don't make dumb decisions doesn't make me a good girl."

But she remained silence. Keep your head down. Silence was how she did it, so when she found she couldn't speak after she woke up she didn't react. The doctor's were concerned.

"Usually when patients wake up mute, they try to scream for help."

She sat there.

"You are certain, correct? You cannot speak at all?"

She nodded. The doctor sighed and sat back in his chair.

"I can't say this isn't unusual most victims in your situation will develop some form of PTSD. Hysterical mutism is a symptom that comes up from time to time. Although it's most commonly found in adolecents"

She stared, the doctor stared back, Sam could tell she was expecting an answer, she did nothing.

"In time it might wear off. But because you brain is considered fully formed there is less of a chance it will."

Sam's expression didn't change. She felt the doctor getting anxious, not knowing what to say next, patients must look hopeful at this point, or terrified. He wrote the name of a therapist on a slip of paper and said to visit them, that it would be good for her. And she did, every Monday._ I wonder if he knows that,_ she thought as she wrote down a circle in the notebook. He was an intuitive person, almost super humanly so. She always knew when he was scanning someone, the same way she could sense people getting bored, or anxious, or annoyed. The unpleasant emotions were the easiest to pick up on. The harder ones were happiness, or contentment, or love. She tried to study him and sense what was going on in front of her. He was completely focused, all of his movements seem perfectly calculated before they were executed. Sharp, like the rest of him, including his mind.

When he dropped the last bit of chemical in a green liquid and Sam marked the results, his entire body seemed to relax. Like a full body sigh. He looked up at her and she handed him the notebook.

Later that night when she was eating Sherlock noticed something new. He noticed it during a commercial when he'd caught her dreaming again. She kept opening and closing her mouth but when it would reach a certain point it seemed to force itself open. Her jaw clicked. _TMJ? No, she doesn't seem to have difficulty there. Must be from injury. _But what injury? During one scan he did of her one morning, he noticed the only bone in her body that had ever been broken was her right wrist, judging by the fact that a bone in it stuck out further than its partner on the left, obvious. But other than a small scar on her chin she seemed relatively uncorrupted._ Maybe John was right, I know nothing about her._ He turned back to the telly and watched for another hour or so, around nine, he got up and realized he hadn't heard her leave her spot on the sofa. She always left before he did to clear the dishes. Maybe he hadn't heard her, he often wouldn't notice when John would leave the room, especially when he was deep in thought. He turned to find her fast asleep, resting her head on the arm, legs curled up. Sherlock stood a moment, watching her body rise and fall. He didn't know what to do. He grabbed his mobile.

John was typing when he heard his mobile vibrate. He checked the contact. Sherlock, at nine at night?_ Probably a case._ John mentally prepared to rush out quickly, grabbing his coat as he read the text, then let it drop to the floor. On his phone was an image, of Samantha, sleeping on his sofa. He hit the call button.

Sherlock picked up immediately. John spoke before he could.

"You took a picture of her sleeping? Are you insane?"

"Not good?"

"Extremely not good. And what was the point of that?"

"What do I do about it?"

John was silent. He saw Mary come out of the bedroom and she mouthed.

"What's going on?"

John covered the mouth piece, "There's a sleeping girl on Sherlock's sofa."

"His... flat mate right?" Mary said cautiously.

"Of course." John said with a smirk as Mary began to giggle silently.

He took his hand off the mouthpiece, "You still there?"

John heard an exasperated sigh.

"What do I do?"

John rubbed his eyes, "I don't know-well first, delete that picture of her sleeping, that's creepy even for you, and second... I don't know give her a blanket, carry her to her room, leave her alone, do what you like."

He was about to hang up when another thought popped into his mind,

"And don't experiment on her!"

He heard nothing on the the other end of the phone, then the dial tone. He'd hung up.

Sherlock turned to look back at the sleeping girl. She hadn't stirred even with the phone conversation. He stood there, for once in a position of complete and utter confusion. _Well the blanket's out of the question,_ she was lying on top of it, _and I don't want to leave her alone he wasn't sure how she'd react to waking up in the sitting room tomorrow morning._ He sighed, the option was simple.

He moved quietly over to the edge of the sofa and tried to assess the best way to approach this without waking her. He slid his left hand gently under her back, and his right underneath her legs. He lifted her slowly and kept an eye on her face which was resting on his shoulder. Sherlock wanted to hold her out further so they wouldn't be touching, figuring it was too invasive for two flat mates who barely knew each other, but he knew if he did her head would flop down over his arm and wake her. No, this was the best way.

He entered her room, which was lit dimly by the floor lamp next to her bed, still made from that morning. He carefully placed her on the bed and managed to tug the covers out from under her in order to place them upon her shoulders. He stood back to look at her one more time. The flat was quiet, no sirens from the other streets of London, or puttering from Mrs. Hudson, for Sherlock, whose life was so full of noise, within and without, this was a rare moment. Which is why he started when he heard a noise come from the figure on the bed. Something like a sigh, which coming from her usually sounded like a deep breath, but this was different. There was something else behind it, a noise, a whisper of a noise. He shut off the light and shut the door quietly behind him, leaning against the opposite wall. Selective mutism didn't seem right anymore. Had his deductions been wrong? Because somewhere in her he was sure, there was still a voice.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Hello friends! I got out of school early today because of snow! So that means an even faster update! Enjoy!

When Sam woke the next morning it took her a minute to remember last night's events. She remembered take away, and the telly, she vaguely remembered falling asleep but that was on the sofa, and now she was in her bed. Only one possible answer. She grinned to herself, he wasn't so awful. She swung her legs out of bed and walked to her desk and sat down. And looked out the tiny window. He really wasn't what people built him up to be. She'd found that a lot of people, as well as other things, turned out that way. Her first year of high school, the teachers at the lower school made the upper school sound so scary and hostile.

"No one will help you up there!"

"You're going to have to fend for yourself!"

"They won't tolerate this behavior when you reach the upper school!"

But she'd found people not to be so cruel, not unbelievably cruel anyway, and her teachers seemed kind enough to offer help, and behavior really didn't change at all. Everything gets its build up, but it never is what you imagine. When she'd been given the description for Sherlock at the interview she'd expected an eccentric, rude, mad scientist. And the way Dr. Watson talked about him made him seem like a complete tosser. He'd recounted an incident involving, what was it? Harpooning a dead pig, then going on the tube covered in its blood? It seemed like they were intentionally trying to scare her off. Also the fact that she didn't interview directly through him was odd. He'd been a mystery from the very beginning, but she was unsure whether or not to be afraid. She knew what to be afraid of, and this wasn't it, he was strange but, she didn't think he was dangerous.

She got up and went into the hallway turning the corner to go into Sherlock's room to grab some clothes to throw at him, she opened his practically empty drawer and examined its contents. She sighed,_ Not hard to pick out clothes for a man who owns four shirts._ She pulled out a dark purple one on the left, and then went below to grab one of the five identical black dress trousers and a his jacket. Shen went into the kitchen and threw the clothes in his face, as usual and then went to make herself some toast.

"You're heading out today I assume?"

She started a little, then cringed at her own reaction. She turned to face him, he was peering at her over his newspaper. She nodded. It was Monday, she'd be heading out to the therapist's office in an hour. Sherlock returned to his newspaper and Sam to her toast.  
When she'd showered and dressed and grabbed her bag to head out she stopped in the sitting room and saw Sherlock examining another case file. _At least he's dressed_. She continued to make her way out the door but just before she crossed the threshold she heard,

"Hope you make some progress today."

* * *

"And this man, he's kind to you?"

Sam nodded, playing with the notepad and pencil in her hand. Her therapist, Sheryl, leaned back in her armchair her pencil poised over her own notepad.

"You told me he was strange care to elaborate."

Sam began scribbling on the notepad,

_He's a consulting detective, only one in the world apparently. He likes to play the violin, and he does chemistry experiments in the kitchen._

Sheryl nodded as she read, "And do you two have some form of communication? Does he talk to you?"

Sam wrote,

_I helped him with an experiment once, just writing things down, he talks to me but usually it's just questions. Only when he has to._

"Is he aware of your...current issues?"

_He has his assumptions, I sort of just left it to his imagination._

Sam thought a moment before continuing.

_He sort of figures people out for a living. He thinks he already knows why I'm this way._

"He thinks? So he's wrong."

Sam didn't know what to say.

_Does he need to know?_

"That's your decision, this is your private issue that you're working through. However knowing what happened to you might create a better relationship between you two."

_We just live together, I help pay the rent. And keep him in check._

"Yes, you mentioned 'taking care of him' what does that mean exactly?"

_His friend found me, he used to live him and basically told me to make sure he eats, showers, gets dressed, that sort of thing._

"Is your new flat mate clinically depressed?"

Sam was taken aback, Sherlock Holmes clinically depressed? His brain was the highest functioning thing she'd ever witnessed, he clearly was devoted to his work the only time he ever showed any lack of interest was when he wasn't working.

_I don't think so._

Sheryl's forehead crinkled in concern, "You might want to contact this friend of his and find out why he's asking you to do these things. Living in an environment with a person with clinical depression may not be healthy for someone in your situation at the moment."

_I have his contact info, I'll ask._

They wrapped up and scheduled for next week, and Sam stepped out of the office on to the London streets deep in thought. He was strange, but was he depressed? She'd never seen him smile really, but then again they didn't spend much time together, what was he like at work? A detective job had the potential to be full of adventure. She'd be bored all the time too if she spent half her life chasing down criminal masterminds. A job like that could easily dull everything around you.

When she returned to Baker Street, Sherlock was out as well as Mrs. Hudson, so Sam was able to head straight upstairs. She dropped her bag in her room and sat at the desk. She opened her laptop to a search engine and typed in,

_Sherlock Holmes-consulting detective._

John was especially giddy walking down the streets today. Grinning ear to ear like he had a secret. He could tell Sherlock was getting annoyed casting questioning glances his way every so often as they walked.

"You've got questions, what?"

John didn't hesitate, "Did you take care of that problem you told me about?"

Sherlock didn't answer, staring straight ahead he sighed. But John was persistent,

"What did you end up doing?"

He was blunt, "I took her back to her room."

"Did you wake her?"

Sherlock was becoming thoroughly annoyed at a rapid pace.

"No I just carried her and put on the bed and left."

John kept grinning, he was done.

"Why is this making you happy?"

He chuckled, "Sherlock Holmes, gentlemen. It suits you."

The detective rolled his eyes and walked ahead.

There were tears in her eyes. Dear God, she was crying! This had to be a trick, how had she missed this? From the looks of the news headlines it had probably been from three years ago. That was when she'd still been in hospital, they tried to keep media out of their lives, thinking it would excite them too much. She re-read the headline.

_Suicide of Fake Genius!_

Shuddering she clicked back to the results page. The next link was an amateur video clip, Sam clicked on it. She saw a shaky shot of St. Bart's hospital and a shadowy figure on top of the building. She couldn't hear anything over the wind in the camera's mic. After a few minutes the figure threw something on the ground and spread his arms...and jumped.

Even though she didn't see the figure hit the ground, Sam winced when she knew the figure had made impact. People had begun crowding the scene when the video ended. She kept scrolling through the page results, a lump in her throat, all of these photos were paparazzi shots of Sherlock some with Dr. Watson, a lot of them involved a hat. Extraordinary cases and gruesome murders, Dr. Watson's blog, which Sam began devouring as fast as her eyes could move across the page. When she'd finished that she moved on to the next link, another article.

_Resurrection of Sherlock Holmes! How He Did It._

She devoured that too. Reading it like some anticipated best seller, and when she had finished, she hit print.

Sherlock looked up to the sound of a small packet of paper being dropped on the kitchen table. He read the headline.

"I see you've done your research."

He looked up at her, her arms were crossed, her eyes were puffy, she'd been crying. She leaned forward and tapped the cover page and raised her eyebrows expectantly.

He leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his mop of black curls.

"It was something I had to do, it was something that was essential to everyone's well being that I did it."

She scribbled on a piece of scrap paper on the table.

_Explain, now._

"You've clearly read everything, what's left to explain? Where were you during all of it? From what I understand it was front page news."

She gave an exasperated sigh, but didn't answer.

"You don't pay attention to media?"

She shook her head.

"Then what?"

She shook her head again and then turned to leave.

Almost as if he were in the room himself Sherlock could hear John's voice in his head.

_Not good?_ "Bit not good, yeah."

He got up and went after her.

Opening the door to her room he saw her sitting at her desk, but her laptop was closed and her head was in her hands. He hung in the doorway for a moment, not knowing what to say, until she sighed and turned to face him.

"I'm uh...I'm sorry."

She looked confused. He continued.

"I shouldn't have tried to pry."

He turned to leave but she stood to stop him and grabbed a notebook.

_Don't be sorry. I think we need to get to know one another better is all._

Just as he was about to answer the phone rang. He ran to the kitchen to grab it.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock, it's Lestrade we got an odd one for you to look at. Can you come?"

"Of course, I'll be there in fifteen."

He hung up grabbed his coat and scarf, putting them on as he walked back to his flat mate's room and stood in the doorway. She was looking out the window.

"Samantha?"

She turned.

"Grab your coat."


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Hello friends! Shorter one today. But I'm working on the story everyday!

St. Bartholomew's morgue was so white it was blinding. Sam had to squint as she struggled to keep up with Sherlock's wide stride. Every three steps she took was one of his. Her head snapped in all directions, she'd been to St. Bart's before but never to the morgue, actually she'd never been to a morgue at all. No one in her family had been close enough or died in such a way that required it. Then again, how many people actually_ need_ to go to a morgue?

They turned a corner and entered a room covered in shining stainless steel, Sam thought she could she her reflection in every surrounding surface. They were greeted by a mousy young woman about Sam's height in a jumper and lab coat, her dirty blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.

"Hi Sherlock," she said nervously, then saw Sam and became more nervous, "who's this?"

Sam gave her a friendly smile, she'd learned from past experience to always let the stranger know you're friendly, more of chance they'll be friendly back.

"Molly, this is Samantha, my new...blogger."

"Blogger? I thought Dr. Watson was-"

"Married life I'm afraid has swallowed dear John up into the void he and now he has other responsibilities. Samantha writes for a living, this is just mere practice."

Sam stood floored. Blogger? It was true, when she'd read the blog there hadn't been a new entry since the one titled "I'm Deleting This" and that was three years ago. But this had never come in discussion.

She saw that Molly was staring at her, she quickly pulled out her tiny notepad she kept on her and scribbled.

_Call me Sam, nice to meet you Molly._

Molly read the scrap of paper and looked at Sherlock who had already taken the sheet off the corpse on the table in front of them and was examining it with a small magnifier. He looked up and said,

"Oh she's a mute by the way."

Sam felt heat rise to her cheeks. She shrugged at Molly with a smile as if to say "What can you do?"

Sam saw her relax and she immediately calmed too. They both watched Sherlock hover around the body like a mad man, measuring and picking, and touching. Molly tried to make conversation.

"So, where did you meet Sherlock?"

_Dr. Watson found me, he was looking for a new flat mate for him, and I needed to get out of my sister and her fiance's hair so I applied._

Molly waited patiently for Sam to stop writing and then read what she had written.

"Is he as much of a nightmare as Dr. Watson said he was?"

She didn't write anything, she looked at Sherlock, who was examining the dead man's toes, and gave an amused smile. She shook her head, he wasn't that bad.

Molly was studying her carefully, Sam could feel it so she turned back to her and tried to make conversation of her own.

_Are you two friends or..._

Molly shook her head and made her voice low, so she wouldn't be heard.

"No, I mean, we're just friends but..."

Sam scribbled quickly.

_But you wish you were?_

Molly smiled brightly, "Yes, but I'm trying to get over it, I know he won't ever go for...anyone. Anyone like me at least. I'm not interesting enough for him."

Sam smiled, Molly was a wonderful girl, she couldn't imagine anyone saying no to her.

"You might be though."

Sam's head snapped back to her, what?

But Molly couldn't continue she was interrupted by Sherlock,

"Are you two going to sit there trading secrets like a couple of school children or are you going to take notes?"

Sam waited until he'd turned his back again then gave a melodramatic salute, making Molly giggle, which made Sherlock turn again so Sam put on a poker face, got up and walked over next to him.

"Whoever shot the gun that caused these bullet wounds was a terrible shot."

She scribbled,_ How do you figure that?_

"There's a bullet wound to the chest, the ankle, and the arm. The oldest wound is the one in the arm. And the newest one is in the chest. All shot by the same gun, it took this man three tries to kill his victim. One shot to the arm, panicking over his miss, he accidentally shot the victim in the ankle, then while the victim tried to tend to his new ankle wound the killer managed to hit him in the chest. Officially killing him."

Sherlock looked back at her seeming to expect a huge reaction. Instead a note was pressed into his palm.

_Nice._


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Here's a longer chapter than yesterday's. I'm on Christmas break now so I'll have more time to write!

Sam looked different as she entered Speedy's. Appearance wise nothing had changed, but something in her demeanor was brighter, less afraid. She sat down with a grin across from John in the booth. John smiled back.

"So, I'm assuming everything is alright then?"

She nodded, still grinning.

"He's eating and everything, getting dressed, staying occupied?"

She scribbled, _He took me with him to St. Barts the other day, said I was his new blogger. He didn't talk to me about it, he just said it. I hope that's alright with you._

John was surprised, Sherlock took her St. Bart's?

"Did you meet Molly?"

She nodded, _Yes, she's very sweet. I like her a lot_.

John thought a moment, she'd met Molly, she'd been appointed as his new blogger, everything seemed so oddly out of character.

"Is he...happy?"

Now Sam thought a moment.

_I think so, but really how can you tell? He doesn't smile much. He seems okay._

"You're right about that. It's hard to figure out what goes on in that bloody head of his."

Sam blew some air through her nose with a smile, a laugh?

"Well, as long as he's not moping around the house. I guess he's alright."

Sam nodded and sat back in her seat, not knowing what to say next.

The silence hung between them, the sounds of other conversations at neighboring booths bouncing off of it like hail on an umbrella.  
John didn't know what else to say, Sherlock never warmed up to someone this fast.

He heard scribbling.

_How long was it before you did a case together?_

John smiled at the memory and replied, "About two hours."

She grinned and wrote,

_He must've liked you a lot._

John nodded, people had always remarked at how quickly Sherlock had trusted him. And he'd always had a sort of pride about it, he'd chosen him out of everyone. And who's to say that wasn't special? He was glad he'd made an effort with Sam and that she seemed much happier.  
He looked up and saw her fidgeting in her seat. He cleared his throat and she looked up.

"Well I suppose if all is well our...meeting is adjourned then?"

Sam gave a joking smile and shrug to say, "I guess so."

John watched her leave and turn the corner to go back up to 221B. He didn't get up like usual. This situation was odd, very odd. Well, it was unusual in the beginning anyway. he thought. A man and woman, not romantically involved, and both straight, rooming together? The entire situation was completely inappropriate. He wondered what people had said when she'd moved in. When John had moved in everyone immediately assumed they were together, he smiled,_ Hell, this probably confused the crap out of the people who originally questioned us._  
He stood to leave, walking out the door he looked to the right and up at the black door with the tarnished numbers and a letter. The door that had once brought him into a world of promise and adventure, now had let someone else in.  
...

Sam jogged up the stairs and into the flat, and just as she swung around the corner to go to her bedroom she heard,

"How's John?"

She started, she hadn't seen him sitting there. He stood.

"Sorry...uhm...I forgot you frighten easily."

Her eye twitched in question, he didn't seem like the kind to forget things. He was still waiting for an answer. She didn't know what to do. How do you say "He's fine." in gesture speak? She gave a weak thumbs up and an awkward smile. Sherlock nodded. Not knowing what else to say she left and went to her bedroom. Sitting on the bed she checked herself. Her heart was still beating fast from when he startled her.

_Pull yourself together. He's a person, you're a person. Stop being so skittish._

A knock at the door. She jumped.

_Nice job._

She stood and opened the door.  
...

When the door opened, Sherlock automatically scanned her. He couldn't help it. He did it whenever someone entered. It was like refreshing the person like a web page, seeing what was new. She was clearly startled. He added anxiety issues to his mental file on her.

"Do you want to get dinner?"

He saw her eyebrows furrow and she checked the clock in confusion. He was an idiot she usually gets take away at 6, it was only 5:25.

"I mean do you want to go out this time? We can't eat rubbish forever, we have to survive past fifty."

She looked tentative. He saw her fingers absentmindedly scratching at the paint on the doorjamb.

"It's nothing formal," he said as seriously as he could. "I just figured you'd probably want something different."

Sam thought a moment, eyebrows still furrowed. Then she nodded slowly and shut the door. A minute later she reappeared with her coat, scarf, and an expectant look on her face.  
...

When the tall thin man and the petite woman entered the darkly lit Italian restaurant they were immediately greeted by its owner. A stout, middle aged man walked over with open arms and a huge smile. For a second Samantha thought he was going to take them both in a bear hug. But his hands landed sharply on Sherlock's shoulders where he then proceeded to shake him as he talked.

"Sherlock! It's been ages How've you been? That suicide scandal, what a story!"

He turned and saw Sam.

"And you've brought another date with you, wonderful!"

Sam felt her cheeks get hot. Sherlock began to protest but the man continued.

"I didn't know you were that way but, we don't judge here. Although I'd like to know whatever happened to that nice young man you brought here a few years ago. You were seen together so often I thought for sure-"

"John's married." Sherlock cut him off.

"Oh what a shame, you two made a cute couple." He said. "Anyway, menus? Have whatever you want, I still owe you."

Sam slid into the seat across from Sherlock who was staring outside the window. She scribbled on a napkin.

_Why didn't you argue when he kept calling you two a couple?_

She slid the napkin across the table loudly so he'd hear it. He read it, then proceeded to stare out the window.

"There's no point in arguing about it. People assume what they like there's no-" He stopped. Something had just occurred to him. He turned to look at her.

"Why didn't you assume?"

She scribbled,_ Well John's married to a woman for one thing, and for another, I've never really seen you two interact so I don't know what your relationship is like._

He didn't say anything so she decided to change the subject.

_So I take it you come here often?_

He stared at the napkin.

"I helped prove the owner's innocence of one crime by turning him in for another."

She raised her eyebrows with an amused smile. She thought that was funny. She wrote again.

_And he gives you free food for it? I should get into the detective business!_

Sherlock let a small smile slip and said, "You technically are now."

He looked at her and she smiled.

I guess I am now.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Okay so if anyone reading this lives in London, I apologize for my severely inaccurate knowledge of London geography. Foyles is a real place and I don't really know its actual proximity to North Gower street, where fictional Baker Street it set. Sooo yeah. Enjoy chapter 9!

"So are you leaving your job reviewing books?" Sheryl asked leaning back in her chair, notepad and pen poised in her lap.

Samantha shook her head.

"Is he paying you?"

She shook her head again.

"Tell me, what exactly is your purpose to him?"

Sam was confused, her purpose to him? Her face must've shown her inner thoughts because Sheryl began to elaborate.

"What exactly does he want with you? Why has he decided all of the sudden to include you in his work?"

She shrugged. It was a mystery to her too. As far as she knew from Dr. Watson's blog he and Sherlock did a lot of cases together, and John documented everything. They'd lived together, that's how John knew so much about Sherlock's quirks and needs. Based on the facts presented she was merely a replacement for him. Not even a good one. After all it had taken him longer to warm up to her.

Sheryl was still waiting for an answer.

_I don't know. I pay the rent, I make sure he eats and now, I document his cases. I'm doing a job._

She said nothing. Sam shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She leaned forward to scribble on the pad again.

_Why are you asking? Is this a problem?_

Sheryl leaned back into her chair, thinking. She was trying to figure out how to say what came next.

"You were a victim of...a terrible action."

Sam looked confused.

"An action that was carried out by...a male."

Sam didn't write anything, she wanted to hear more. What was she saying?

"I'm worried that this arrangement might be potentially...compromising to your recovery."

Now she wrote, _In what way?_

Sheryl was trying to choose her words wisely.

"Depending on what his...intentions are with you, this situation could make things worse for you."

_What are you suggesting?_

Sam could see her therapist getting more and more uneasy. The woman sighed.

"I think it would be beneficial to you to find out why he wants you around. If he's interested in a relationship of a romantic sort then that could be an issue."

Sam felt her cheeks get hot. She looked down and scribbled furiously.

_Why would that be an issue? It's been three years, shouldn't I be ready for a relationship by now? You didn't tell me this originally._

Sheryl rubbed her eyes.

"It's never come up before. You weren't in a relationship when the incident occurred, and the one who caused it wasn't your significant other. There was no reason to address it."

Sam dug her pen into the pad in anger.

_What will happen to me if I'm involved with someone? How come after three years I supposedly can't handle it?_

Sheryl sighed again.

"At this point Samantha, I'm afraid that you haven't made as much progress as we'd hoped."

Sam leaned forward, silently begging her to continue.

"You still have a very active startle response, even at the smallest noises. You also mentioned your discomfort of people being too physically close to you in public settings."

She felt tears spring to her eyes.

_What's the matter with that? Those things can be overcome._

Sheryl leaned forward and took her hands.

"Yes, yes they can. I also know that you're trying, you're trying so hard and I'm proud of you for it. But, in my professional medical opinion you are not ready to be engaged with a person physically yet."

Sam sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Then immediately regretted it. Sheryl handed her a tissue.

"Look there's no need to cry. You're not ready yet. I'm not saying there's no hope for you either."

She looked up into her eyes.

"You need to get better first. Focus on you. Once you've done that then you'll finally be capable to focus on another person."

Sam didn't know how to respond. So she got up, thanked Sheryl and rescheduled for the next week. Then she walked quickly out the front door of the office, the door clanging behind her.

She jogged up the stairs to the flat faster than usual, whipped around the corner and went striaght to her room, slamming the door behind her. She didn't care who heard.

Why would she get upset like that over a simple question? Isn't wasn't as if she were looking for a relationship. In fact she'd never been _looking_ for a relationship. Her sister was the one who always seemed to get the guys. Even as teenagers, Sarah was the one with the date every weekend. While Sam would sit at home and read and that never bothered her._ After all_, she'd figured,_ I've got the rest of my life to do_ _that_. Much to the dismay of every girl in her school.

_So why is this bothering me so much now?_ She paid the rent, she did a job. She was there for a purpose. Sam began to pace around the room.

_She's being ridiculous,_ she thought furiously, _Sherlock wasn't even the one who picked me! It's not like he wanted me specifically_. _No,_ she thought stopping in the middle of the room,_ he doesn't have a intention for me. He's just being him. He's odd. That's all, nothing more._  
She heard a knock at the door.

When Sherlock heard the footsteps coming up the stairs he knew something was different. They were quicker, and had more purpose.  
He stayed perfectly still in his chair. When she stormed by he didn't say anything. She blew past him as if he were invisible. The door to her room slammed and he heard the sound of bed springs as she flopped on the bed. He listened a minute before he heard movement. Footsteps in a repeating pattern. She was pacing. He heard her stop and he went to her door and knocked quietly so he wouldn't startle her again.

When she answered the door she had a fire in her eyes that he'd never seen before. He tried to speak.

"Erm... sorry... did I interrupt something?"

She gave a reassuring smile and quickly shook her head. She was about to close the door when she noticed he wasn't leaving.

Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck, rapidly searching his brain for something else to say.

"Did you...erm...make any progress today?"

A confused look. He sighed.

"It's no surprise that I know where you go on Mondays."

She just stared. He prattled on.

"You suffer from mutism so of course you have a therapist or pychiatrist of some sort."

Sam leaned against the door frame with a sigh. Then looked him straight on. This surprised Sherlock a bit. He'd often noticed her avoidance of eye contact and noticed that she only looked at him when he wasn't looking back. Probably a result of the trauma.

She stopped looking at him and turned to grab her notebook.

_My psychiatrist just upset me is all. It's all over now. I'm okay._

Sherlock read the paper then said blandly,

"You know it'd be more efficient to use sign language."

She let out what sounded like an annoyed sigh and wrote quickly.

_Tried it a few years ago, I didn't pick it up very quickly. Also that would mean everyone else would have to learn it too so they could understand it. This is just easier._

"Are there any other methods?"

_I had a talk box that I typed into, but that seemed to frighten people. Especially small children._

Sam finished the last sentence with a small smirk.

Sherlock hesitated, "So... what's your plan then?"

_My psychiatrist wants me to talk again. But I found out today I'm not doing as well as she'd hoped. So I don't know._

The wheels began to turn in his mind.

The next morning Sam was determined to get out of the house. She went through her morning routine ten times faster than usual. Sherlock clearly noticed this but she didn't care. She took only a ten minute shower then dressed, grabbed her bag, and clattered down the stairs rather noisily. Stepping out the door into the crisp, late autumn air she inhaled the smell of leaves and the biting wind.

Moving with purpose down the street, past Speedy's and onward she made a beeline for Foyles. A large London bookseller. It used to be closer when she lived with her sister, now living on Baker Street, it was a bit more of a hike.

After she'd began living with her sister, before she got her writing job Sam would go to Foyles during the day while Sarah and Mark were working. She loved it because it was large, but quiet. She'd walk up and down the shelves tapping the tops of the spines like keys on a piano. Running her fingers along the covers of the displays. She also loved the way one could literally get lost. There were so many corners and possible hiding places. If I were a child I'd play hide and seek here for hours, she'd thought.

Settling into an over sized armchair in some forgotten corner of the massive store, she began to read. Before she knew it two hours had passed.

"You gonna buy that?"

Sam started and looked up into the eyes of a young, handsome employee, who was grinning down at her.

She struggled to her feet. Which were asleep from being curled up in the same position for so long.

She opened her mouth like she meant to speak on purpose but of course no sound came out. The guy looked a bit confused.

"You okay?"

Sam tapped her throat and shook her head.

"Oh you got a bit of laryngitis?"

Sam let a smile slip and shook her head. She scribbled in her notebook.

_Nope, mute._

His eyebrows went up in realization.

"Oh man, I'm sorry I didn't know."

She held her hand up to stop whatever long apology he was mentally preparing and wrote out a quick note.

_It happens all the time. How could you know?_

"Oh...um okay. I really am sorry though. I feel like an idiot."

She shrugged to say , "It's okay."

They stood in silence for a moment, the guy looked down at her book, A Christmas Carol.

"You reading some Dickens?"

Sam wrote, _It'll be Christmas soon, getting in the mood._

Another bit of silence. The employee ran his hand through his hair a few times before saying, "Look, I still feel bad about before. Can I at least do something to stop feeling like such a git?"

She shrugged again, not really knowing what he had in mind.

"Here," he said taking the book from her hand "How about I give you a discount on this or something? Or even better how about I make it on the house?"

As appealing as that sounded Sam couldn't let him do that. She shook her head and tried to stop him.

"Come on it's the least I can do."

She wrote fast.

_It's not that big of a deal. You don't have to do that._

But the guy was already at the register.

"Only ten pounds? I can spare that." He swiped a card through the machine, and handed her the book over the counter.

Sam felt heat rise to her cheeks. This was incredibly generous, and she felt a little embarrassed to accept such a gesture. She scribbled on the back the receipt.

_You really didn't have to._

He smiled, "I know, I just want to keep you coming around."

As she was leaving he called from the register, "I'm Kyle by the way!"

She blushed all the way back to the flat.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: Merry Christmas!

It was one of those sleepless nights. Not the ones where you were too nervous of excited to settle down. Or the ones filled with chilling thoughts and cringe-worthy memories. This was a sleepless night of a different sort. One where fatigue didn't phase you. You just keep doing things and pacing about the room.

Sam walked around the room. Stretching her arms above her head, then paced back across the room stretching her neck. She picked up her book then put it down again, not in the mood. She stopped at the center of her room and turned her head to the small window above her desk. She padded over to it and leaned across the piece of furniture to look out of it. It faced the front. She had a view of a brick wall from a building behind theirs. But if you looked up there was something to see. As Sam looked up now she saw the moon, full and white in the sky and one or two dim stars. She leaned back off the desk and walked over to her floor lamp, shut it off, then returned to the window. Ah there you are, she thought as more stars began to appear as her eyes adjusted to the dark.

Sam put one foot on her chair and used it as support for jumping up to kneel on the desk. With more force than she expected to need she pushed the window open and reached out as far as she could. Her arm stretching up higher and higher, between the two buildings, past London and up to grasp the stars like coins.

"Books and stars my girl, those are your best friends." Her father had said when she was little.

"They'll always be there for you, even when you can't see them or hold them. They stick to you forever."

Sam had always liked that. In a world where it was hard to trust anyone those words gave her a sense of security. At least two things would stay the same no matter what.

She sighed and pulled her arm back down to earth, almost tripping on her nightgown as she stepped down off the desk and the chair. She fell into bed, which tonight felt like the softest thing in the world and closed her eyes and tried to dream.

In darkness she heard the hint of a noise. The quiet notes of a violin, twenty feet away. Sherlock playing out in the sitting room. The aching notes rocked her mind into slumber.

She was moving too fast again. She ate her breakfast like a flash, showered in only five minutes and threw his clothes at him at least ten minutes early.

With a quick wave goodbye and a swing around the corner and down the steps she was gone and Sherlock's curiosity arrived.

When Sam entered Foyles that morning she was greeted by Kyle and brought to a cafe that was attached to the store. There was a small table in the corner for two with a spiral notebook and two pens. Sam turned to look at him.

"I figured it'd be easier if we both communicated the same way."

She smiled a bit bigger than she'd meant to. Kyle pulled out a chair for her and she sat, resting her bag on the ground. She picked up the pen closest to her and wrote,

_Thank you, this was a cool idea._

He wrote underneath it in a boyish scrawl.

**_No problem, it also prevents eavesdropping which is a plus!_**

She laughed silently.

_So what do we do?_

**_I don't know. Talk, tell me about yourself._**

Sam thought a minute.

_What do you want to know?_

Kyle scooted a bit closer, causing the right side of Sam's body to electrify.

_**What do you do for a living?**_

_I'm a freelance book reviewer. I get pretty steady work from online websites and magazines. The job doesn't require talking so it's perfect for me._

**_What are you reading now?_**

_An advanced reader's copy of a new book from a young adult author. I'm not allowed to talk about it because apparently it's "widely anticipated."_

She heard him laugh at the quotation marks.

**_Some teen series being produced into films?_**

_My lips are sealed,_ she wrote miming zipping her lips.

**_Okay, so off the subject of books. Where are you from?_**

_I've lived in London for most of my life. Or near it. My parents were both teachers here so they tried to stay close to their schools._

**_Is that why you love reading too?_**

_Yeah, I guess so. My Dad was the one who really had me read a lot. He loves classic stuff._

**_You still live here now?_**

_Yes, I just got a new flat._

**_Where?_**

_Baker Street. With a flatmate._

**_That sounds familiar._**

Just as Sam was about to write back her mobile buzzed. She checked the name on the screen. Text from Sherlock.

_St. Bart's. Come at once. SH_

She looked back to Kyle who had a concerned look on his face. He didn't write this time.

"Is everything alright?"

Sam nodded and scrawled across the notebook quickly as she grabbed her bag.

_Everything's fine. I just have to meet someone._

"Who?"

She pointed to the word "flatmate" on the paper.

"Is she okay?"

She held up her hand to say "Don't worry about it." She didn't know how to explain physically or on paper that her flatmate wasn't a "she."

She just gave him a smile and wrote, _Thank you._

As she rushed to the front of the store he tried to catch up with her.

"Hey!"

She turned.

"What are you, Clark Kent or something?" he called with an amused smirk.

Sam shrugged to say, "I might be."

When Sherlock saw Sam coming up the street toward the Hospital she looked flushed. Not from the brisk air, or the obvious fact she had run here. J_ohn never did that_, he thought in passing. But Sam looked almost flushed with happiness. The way John used to when he'd come home from a date.

When she came up next to him he immediately refocused. They turned to walk into the building.

"You didn't have to sprint you know."

An embarrassed look crossed her face.

"Not that you did anything wrong. In fact it's more efficient than what John would do."

A nervous smile.

They entered the morgue again, this time greeted by a handsome middle aged man with a serious expression.

"Samantha, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade, Samantha."

She held out her_ Call me Sam_ paper she now kept on her at all times.

Sherlock walked ahead, "She doesn't speak by the way."

Lestrade turned back to her and held out his hand, "Nice to meet you Sam."

She shook his hand and began to follow Sherlock but Lestrade stopped her.

"Forgive me, but I have to ask you this. What is your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

She reached for her notepad but Sherlock beat her to the punch.

"She's my new blogger Lestrade. You know, got to keep up that public image," he stated sarcastically.

"You and Dr. Watson have a row or some-?"

"No he's married. Sam's just keeping up the blog."

"What about that flatmate situation I heard about with you two? Is this because of that?"

Sherlock looked up from the body he was examining with an almost childlike grin.

"Actually it is! Meet the newest tenant of 221B Baker Street."

Lestrade turned back to a red-faced Sam with wide eyes.

"You live with him? Dr. Watson picked you?"

She shrugged. Not really knowing how to respond. She walked past Lestrade and over to Sherlock's side.

"He's a moron. Don't take to heart anyhting he says. His wife's cheated on him five times." Sherlock said under his breath.

Sam breathed out a small sigh.

"Well, are you taking notes?"

On the cab ride home Sherlock saw Sam's eyes start to droop. The lights of London passing over her face every few minutes.

When they returned to Baker Street, the temperature had dropped significantly. He noticed her let out a shiver as they walked towards the door.

"Winter's coming soon." He mused.

Upon entering the flat they were immediately accosted by a flour covered Mrs. Hudson. Who apparently been baking all afternoon.

"Oh good you two are home! I need your help with something."

She began to usher them into the small downstairs kitchen. Sherlock tried to protest.

"Mrs. Hudson we were just-"

"Oh hush now, you can spare a few minutes."

He saw Sam cover her mouth to hide a grin.

Their landlady positioned them next to each other on the counter and began to give orders.

"I have two other batches of cookies to frost and there's another batch in the oven already. I need to keep the cycle moving as quickly as possible so this will all be done by tomorrow. I need you two to start rolling this next set of dough."

"Mrs. Hudson-" he tried but she hushed him and handed him a rolling pin.

She gave Sam hers, who accepted it a little more willingly, and began rolling out the dough in front of her.

Sherlock was trying to think of a way out when he felt a nudge. He ignored it and kept thinking, rolling pin still in hand. If Sam is so willing to do this then maybe she'll kick me out after a bit if I don't do any work or- his thoughts were interrupted. By a puff of flour in his face. From Sam. Who then clapped her hands to say "Get to work."

He squinted his eyes open, "What was-?"

"Sherlock, the mess you've made." Mrs. Hudson said wiping off his face with a dish rag. Which caused Sam to let out a silent laugh.

When Mrs. Hudson had turned around again Sherlock began strategy for retaliation.

When Sam's head was down trying to smooth out the edges of the dough he took a handful of flour and turned her dark hair white.  
When she turned to look at him with an open mouthed surprised smile. He immediately put on a poker face and called to Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson I believe another accident has occurred and shockingly, not my fault."

She turned and rolled her eyes, "Honestly you two. At least Dr. Watson kept you civil."

Sherlock stifled a laugh. Another eye-roll from Mrs. Hudson.

"Go clean yourselves up. I can finish this on my own."

They went up the stairs in small fits of giggles while they heard Mrs. Hudson muttering to herself, "If you want something done right..."

"Hey Clark!" Sam heard a voice call from the register as she entered the store.

_Clark?_ she wrote.

"You know, you have a double life like Clark Kent and Superman!"

She grinned and handed him a book order sheet.

"New book to review?"

_Another advanced reader's copy. They send them here for me to pick up._

He punched a number into the computer and then looked on the shelves behind him to find the right wrapped package.

When he handed it to her he said,

"Hey, I was thinking...would you want to go out somewhere sometime? Like a proper date."

Her eyebrows went up.

_We've known each other, what, two days?_

"Three if you count today."

Sam began to chew on her lower lip, which was already red and raw from the cold.

"Look, I'm clearly a nice guy and everything and you like me right?"

_Can I get back to you on that?_

"What about liking me?"

_No, about the date._

He leaned against the counter, "How about this? It's Tuesday, how about I schedule for Friday, if you come then great, if you don't then I'll leave you alone."

Sam hesitated, fingers scratching at the label on the package.

_Maybe._

"Maybe. I'll take it, come by this address on Friday if you want."

He scribbled on a piece of paper and pressed it into her palm.

Sam's stomach turned to knots.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: Hello everyone! Sorry for the longer hiatus than expected. This chapter is a result of major writer's block that lasted a week or two. Enjoy.

He felt he should say something._ But what?_ Samantha had been jittery for the past few days and he was concerned. Her nervous habits had heightened. The chewing of the lips, the picking at things with her hands, rubbing her fingers together._ All signs of anxiety_, he noted. _Something has changed in the past forty eight hours to heighten her anxiety._

Sam walked in and threw his clothes at him, interrupting his thoughts, and just as quickly scurried back to her room.  
Sherlock got up from the table and walked down the hallway to her room. He peered through the keyhole, from his angle he saw; the corner of Sam's desk, a bit of carpet, and the rest of the carpet was covered in piles of clothing. Another bunch of clothes fell to the floor and he heard an exasperated sigh. Then footsteps, he began to back away when a floorboard beneath him creaked. The footsteps inside the room stopped._ Heightened auditory senses to compensate for lack of verbal activity_.

He rushed back to the chair where he was sitting when he heard the footsteps begin again and grow louder.  
When Samantha finally entered the sitting room he looked up and saw her, barefoot in a tank top and a skirt. The most skin she had ever shown in his presence. He blinked and refocused, just in time to notice her squinted eyes and thumb pointed back at the hallway.

"I... thought I heard something. False alarm. No need to worry."

She crossed her arms, stared a minute, then padded back to her room.

Sherlock settled back into his chair with a sigh.

Back in her room Sam stood in the middle of her clothing covered floor, hands on her hips. It was Thursday, Kyle said Friday was the day she had to make her decision.

She hadn't actually decided yet but, it couldn't hurt to know what she would wear, or would've worn. Formal dressing was not her strong suit. When she and Sarah were teenagers Sarah had always been the fashion forward one. Where Sam would be function over fashion. She'd always managed to look clean and nice, but comfortable.

As she stood observing the clothes below she tried to figure out what one was supposed to wear to a date like this. The address Kyle had given her was to a formal restaurant about forty five minutes from Baker Street. _Why so far?_ She'd researched the place and it seemed nice. Fancy and a bit pricey, which didn't help her nerves much.

Sam dropped to her knees and started digging through the piles. Mentally cursing with each article she pulled from the masses. _Too casual, too frumpy, too miserable looking. _She sighed loudly_, Don't I have one formal thing? _

From the corner of her eye she spotted a bit of red. She lunged towards it with blind hope and yanked it from the pile. What came forth was a billowing, flowy, red dress. It wasn't tight at all and only cinched at the waist. The red wasn't bright red it was a softer, deeper, rose color. The kind you see on queens in paintings. Sam tried to remember why she had this dress, flashing back to a dim memory of a graduation. She held it front of her and studied it. _This will have to do._

John stared at Sam across the booth. Trying to study her the way his best friend did. Coming up with nothing. All that he knew was that she wasn't as genuinely happy as she had been at their last meet up. She seemed more nervous and jumpy. She figeted in her seat. Pulling her sleeves down over her hands, chewing the skin off her lower lip. John felt her leg jiggling under the table. He cleared his throat.

"So ah...everything good with you two?"

A nod but she didn't look at him.

"Any developments I should know about?"

The chewing stopped, but the leg didn't. She scribbled on her notepad with a shaky hand.

_What's the system in terms of dates?_

John's eyebrows went up at the last word.

"Dates? Meaning dates with who?"

_When you went on dates what did you do to make sure Sherlock didn't destroy the place?_

A chuckle from John.

"Personally, I usually didn't have to worry about the flat when I was on dates. Although that was because Sherlock usually tagged along."

A small smile from Sam. She relaxed a bit.

"If you want I can tell you about a few, but I don't want to scare you off."

Sam tensed a little but, nodded.

"Once he sent me and a girl to a traveling Chinese circus, which was only a cover for a black market scheme. He almost got my date killed, and me with her. By a bow and arrow contraption."

A pained look.

"He saved us too though. Obviously not dead here," he said gesturing to himself, "and my date is alive and well too. Little worse for wear, but okay."

Another smile emerged.

"Does he know you're going on a date?"

_No, I usually don't tell him where I'm going and he calls me when he needs me._

John nodded slowly.

"I think you won't have anything to worry about as long as he doesn't follow you."

Sam stared at the tabletop for a minute before nodding.

"Are you nervous or...?"

She gave him the "kind of" signal with her hand and weak smile. John gave a low laugh.

"You don't have anything to worry about, except maybe Sherlock."

She grinned, eyes a bit brighter than before.

* * *

The two of them left Speedy's at the same time today. Sam headed next door to 221B and with a wave opened and closed the door. John waved back and continued down the sidewalk. He caught a cab and was taken back to his flat.

"Mary?" he called.

"In here!" came a voice from the kitchen.

He walked into the kitchen and dropped his keys into the bowl on the table. Mary was at the stove over a pot of something.

"How was today's...what do you call them?"

John sighed and walked over to give his wife a kiss on the cheek.

"They're just check-ins."

"Okay then, how was today's 'check-in'?"

John sat at the table and rubbed his eyes.

"I think Samantha's found someone. She's got a date."

Mary turned to face him with a surprised smile.

"Good on her. How's Sherlock dealing with this?"

"I don't think he knows. She told me that she never tells him where she's going. Didn't tell me about who she was going on a date with."

Mary put a lid on the pot and walked over to sit across from her husband.

"I didn't think she'd pick someone else."

John looked up, "What do you mean 'someone else?'"

"I just mean the two of them are sort of..."

"Sort of what?"

Mary smiled and shrugged.

"I just mean they sort of...fit."

"Fit?"

"Yes, I think they compliment each other. She's got a bite to her. Her silence makes it hard to see, and Sherlock's well-Sherlock. Who's all talk and show and she sits back and is just amused by it all."

"Amused by it all?"

"You told me she practically agreed to all of his quirks the day they met. She likes them."

"Likes them?"

"She thinks they're funny, and dare I say it, possibly attractive."

John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms with a smirk.

"And how do you figure that?"

"I'm part of the female species too. I know how our minds work. I'm not saying I'm right but from what you've told me from your 'check ups' makes me Sam may have a bit of a girlish crush on your best friend."

John scoffed.

"I've seen people who've had crushes on Sherlock Holmes and they've been incredibly obvious about it. He's brushed them all off. He's a sociopath, he isn't capable of love. He said so himself."

Mary stood and as the pot on the stove began to make a hissing noise.

"Maybe he's been misdiagnosed."

Sherlock was interrupted from his reading by a piece of paper placed next to his arm. He half closed his laptop, picked up the paper and read the handwriting.

_On Friday you'll have to fend for yourself for dinner. I'm going out._

He looked up and saw Samantha rinsing a mug in the sink, he studied her as he usually did. She wore a t-shirt, jeans, her hair was in a messy bun today. Not down like other days. The jittery energy had gone down since that morning. When she'd gone out to pick up some groceries that afternoon he'd peeked into her bedroom in passing. The clothes had been cleaned up and the rest of the room seemed immaculately cleaned. A place to focus her nervous energy no doubt, he thought.

"Where are you going?"

She turned and walked over the desk where he was sitting and pointed at the word "out." Then walked back to the sink to finish what she was doing. Sherlock didn't budge.

"Out where?"

Sam didn't turn around, she just shrugged.

"Did John tell you do this?"

She stopped scrubbing but kept facing the wall.

"If you're going on a...date or something why should I care?"

Sam still didn't do anything.

"If you are it shouldn't matter to me."

She turned away from the sink, leaned against the counter and sighed. After moment she walked over to the desk and scribbled on some scrap paper.

_If you need me you can always text me. I doubt you will so let's just consider this conversation open and closed._

He read the paper carefully and watched as Samantha walked back to her room. When he heard the door close behind her Sherlock buried his face in his hands.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note:For those of you who liked Kyle... I'm so sorry** Putting this in bold lettering because it's important. DO NOT READ THE TRIGGER WARNING IF YOU DON'T WANT SPOILERS! HOWEVER IF YOU FEEL IT WOULD BE IN YOUR BEST INTEREST PLEASE DO READ IT.**

**TRIGGER WARNING:** Rape and sexual harassment descriptions.

Sam smoothed her hair down and stared into the mirror. She was wearing the dress and the most comfortable pair of heels she owned. Which wasn't hard considering she only had two pairs. But lack of options aside, she had tried tonight. Her amber eyes were darkened with liner and mascara. Her usually pin straight hair had been loosely curled and framed her face in a way that made her angles sharper. And her lips were a shade darker than usual, lipstick to cover the raw redness of her bad habit. Sam tore her eyes away from the mirror and turned her attention to her bag. She checked its contents to she what she could get rid of to make it look less bulky. After some digging she removed all pens but one, a water bottle she didn't remember packing, and a cluster of papers from work. She kept; a small copy of Jane Eyre, a sort of security blanket in an unfamiliar situation, her regular notepad, and her mobile just in case Sherlock needed her. Sam put the bag on her shoulder and rexamined herself in the mirror. The bag had gotten considerably flatter, mission accomplished. Samantha turned away from the mirror, checked the address Kyle had written for her then faced her bedroom door. A deep breath. She turned the doorknob and crossed the threshold.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair reading on his laptop when he heard the footsteps. Clomping, heavy, not her boots or her trainers, heels but not thin ones, wedges. She's unable to walk in heels. The clomping grew louder and as he looked up he stifled a reaction. She was unrecognizable, well to anyone normal. She'd done up her makeup and hair, to his surprise much better than most women he'd met. Who use to cover up things they hate rather than highlight what they had. Idiots, the lot of them.  
He opened and closed his mouth several times before clearing his throat and saying, "What time will you be back then?"

She held up nine fingers.

"Okay...good then. Uhm...have fun."

She gave him a small smile and a wave before heading, cautiously, down the stairs and out the door of 221B Baker Street, into the night.  
The second the door closed Sherlock lunged from his chair and made a beeline for her bedroom.

Sam had gotten a cab to the restaraunt Kyle had given her the address to. It was forty five minutes away. She certainly wasn't walking all the way. Especially since she couldn't even walk a straight line in the shoes she was wearing. Thank god they'd be sitting most of the night. She let her eyes and mind wander to the night lights of the city, she didn't let herself specualte about the night to come. This was calmest she'd be for the rest of the night and she didn't want it to end too quickly. She pressed her hands into her knees to keep them from shaking, and inhaled deeply.

The cab stopped with a halt and snapped Sam out of her thoughts. They had pulled up in front of a restaurant and pub. She paid the cabbie and cautiously put one heeled foot on the pavement outside the door and managed to walk to to the front door. When she entered the dimly lit foyer she saw Kyle sitting on one of the seats where they put waiting parties. He stood when he saw her and gave a wave. Sam smiled and went up to him.

"Sup' Clark? You ready?"

She gave a nod.

Kyle approached the desk and got them a table. Once they were seated Sam felt the nerves she'd tried so hard to flush out of her system come slamming back. The restaurant was dark, and a bit loud, especially by the pub area. Loud laughter and clinking roared across the space like thunder.

"So...you got your notepad?"

She nodded and pulled it from her bag along with her pen.

_So, what do we do now?_

"We could order drinks if you'd like."

As if she had read Kyle's mind a waitress appeared beside their table.

"Can I get you two some drinks?"

Kyle gave a charming smile and said,"Yeah I'll take a pint and she'll have...what do you want?"

She scribbled quickly feeling the waitress's confused stare on her neck.

Kyle leaned over and scanned the paper.

"Tea's fine for her."

A sigh from Sam.

Sherlock entered Sam's room slowly, scanning the space as whole first before looking around. Her bed was made as usual, the laptop on her desk was closed with a book lying open next to it, there was a scrap of paper lying next to it. He turned on her lamp and walked over to the desk. He picked up the piece of paper and read the address scrawled on it. Definitely not her handwriting, man's hand, right handed, probably low paying job based on the ink used. Most likely the address for Sam's date. He quickly sat down in her desk chair and opened the laptop, promptly guessed her password, and searched the address. The search led to the restaurant's website which he scanned over in a matter of minutes. He clicked back to the search results and scrolled down a bit more. There was a newspaper article with the restaurant's name in bold. He clicked on it.

_Young Girl Found Unconscious in Alleyway by Sebastian's Restaurant and Pub_

The date was marked three years ago. He skimmed the article quickly. There was no picture of the victim and at the time the article was written she was still considered unidentified. He read some more and discovered that she had been taken to a hospital shortly after she'd been found. A victim of severe physical and sexual assault, the article read. Bruises to the face and abdomen, and bruises and grip marks around the wrists.

He skipped through the parts about speculation of what might have happened, all ridiculously predictable, and skipped to the end of the article.

_This isn't the first time a incident of this nature has occurred at Sebastian's. Two years prior another woman was found in a similar position behind the restaurant itself. However she'd been dead for several hours when she was found. These stories have led to Sebastian's being the center of rumors that might be linked to other incidents in the past._

Sherlock exited the search and shut the laptop. He left the room grabbing his coat and scarf in one swift movement. He thundered down the stairs and onto the street. He hailed a cab.

"Sebastian's Pub, the fastest way possible. Go now!"

Kyle was having trouble reading what she'd wrote. He squinted at it for a few minutes while Sam stared at him from across the table. All she'd written was, _Okay_. He was beginning to sway where he sat. All nervousness from before had faded and been replaced with cautious concern. Three empty pint glasses sat next to Kyle as he drank a fourth. When he'd initially asked for the second a half hour ago Sam had wanted to protest, but she wouldn't be able to write fast enough. Another setback to pen over voice.

She picked at her food and tried to eat some, but the meat she'd been given tasted rather suspect, plus her mouth was dry. She forced the bit of beef (or whatever it was) down her throat and took a sip of the water she'd asked for when the waitress had offered her a pint as well. She subtly checked her mobile to look at the time. Only 8:15 she'd told Sherlock she'd be home by nine or ten at the latest. If she came home any earlier he'd have a deduction field day.

"I have to use the loo," he slurred to her.

She nodded and and he stumbled out of his chair and headed in the general direction of the restrooms. The waitress reappeared.

"You want some dessert or something?"

Sam shook her head and gestured that the waitress should just clear the table. As she began gathering plates they both heard a crash. They looked up to find Kyle arguing with a waiter he'd clearly smashed into. Sam jumped out of her seat and grabbing him, pulled him away from the mess of shattered plates and scattered food. On the way out she dropped a twenty pounds on the table where they'd been sitting with some interest, hoping it would cover the meal and the damage and dragged Kyle outside.

Holding the stumbling man up Sam scanned the streets for cabs. When she saw headlights she raised her hand for him to stop. The can blew right past. No point if she couldn't actually call out to it. She frantically scanned the streets for anyone she could possibly get to call it for them, when she felt an arm around her waist. She turned to be met face to face with a droopy eyed Kyle.

"Let's get out of here," he mumbled.

Sam gave him a frantic look to say "I'm trying to!"

But it didn't register in his fuzzy mind because he put is other arm around her waist and guided her to a dark corner on the side of the building. Sam tried to push him away but he kept coming back.

"See? Romantic, like one of your books. In a dark alley..."

Sam tried to crane her neck to see if there was anyone on the street to see what was happening, but Kyle's hand was already stroking the side of her collar bone.

"...you look so gorgeous tonight. Much better than other times."

He tried to lean in for a kiss but she pushed his face away. He pulled back.

"I'm just saying you actually look sexy now."

His hands moved lower, Sam's breath began to shorten.

"I know that your innocent act isn't even real."

He forced her hands behind her back then pressed her into the brick wall so they couldn't get free.

"All girls know how to do that. I should know, I've had tons."

His hands began sliding down her body, aiming for the hem of her dress.

Sam tried to pull her hands out from between her back and the wall but he'd pushed her so tight she could feel the brick scraping her knuckles.

Kyle's hands her running up her leg now. She was trembling and her mind was a blur. Her head hurt in everyway possible as a memory came flooding back.

_"Shut up!" he'd said. "Why do you always have to scream?" He pushed his rough hand down over her mouth grinding the back of her head into the gravel below._

Kyle pushed her down to the ground, she kicked at him but he pinned her hands over her head. In a blind panic she opened her mouth to scream, hoping that maybe miraculously her voice wouldn't fail her this time. But no sound emerged. Her heart began slamming hard against her chest she thought she could see it through her skin.

"Good thing you can't say anything. Sometimes it ruins the mood."

_The sound of a zipper opening made her start and she began to make unrecognizable sounds behind his scratchy fingers. Tears streamed down the side of her face._

Another zipper noise, this one was real. Sam felt the tears again as her mind kept shouting "This cannot be happening again!" She closed her eyes and tried to leave the world behind when she heard a loud impact noise and the sound of a body on pavement. She opened her eyes to see the silhouette of man in a long coat. She embraced him.

Sherlock curled his arm around Samantha's waist to support her, she was shaking so hard she couldn't sit up straight. Her breathing was ragged and he heard small wheezing noises. More hope for the voice.  
He heard the man he'd punched groan and he immediately turned to Sam. He held her in front of him and looked her deep in the eyes.

"We need to go alright? Now."

He grabbed her bag from the ground where she'd dropped it and didn't let go of her as he brought her to the street to hail a cab. While watching he noticed she was still shivering. She had no coat.

"Are you cold?" he asked quickly.

Before she could answer in any way he took off his coat and put it on her shoulders.

"Keep that tight around you it's below 20."

He hailed a cab and didn't stop talking to her.

"You get in that side I'm going to go around...careful...take your shoes off and pull your feet up under you...like that yes...keep that coat tight...I'll be around in sec."

He paid the cabbie in advance and said "Baker Street as fast as you can this woman is ill."


End file.
